


Luck of the Irish

by gingerchangeling



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Curses, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Humor, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 02:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19758301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerchangeling/pseuds/gingerchangeling
Summary: Emma needs parent volunteer hours. So she offers to chaperon Henry's upcoming field trip to the museum. Its just a pack of prepubescent angst ridden children, an exhibit about dead people, and a rock used in blood sacrifices with a curse carved into it. What's the worst that could happen?





	Luck of the Irish

Emma Swan hated children. How she could have forgotten that simple, integral fact is beyond her. 

Sure, she has Henry. And Henry’s pretty okay most of the time. But even as a child herself, she had never been able to stand being around the other kids. 

Well, to be fair to children everywhere, kids from the system probably weren’t the best selection pool to be comparing the general populace to, but still…

Children. 

And now here she was,  _ chaperoning. _

_ “Mom?” Henry voice called from down the hall as the door closed behind her. _

_ “No, I’m a crazy ghost come to bring terrible misfortune upon you and all you love.” _

_ “Oh…. good, I thought that you were gonna ground me.” _

_ She paused. A telling silence followed. “.......Henry?” _

_ “HEY MOM WELCOME HOME HOW WAS WORK?” _

_ She raised an eyebrow as she entered the living room, taking in her son oh-so studiously laboring over several spread textbooks. She checked her watch. Well past 8. He was usually deep into whatever level of his new warlock game by this time of night. Which meant…. _

_ “Henry Michael.” _

_ She watched him wince. She knew she didn’t need to say more. If he was already feeling guilty enough to commit to self-imposed penance, then it wouldn’t take him very long to confess. _

_ “Thsletrinthcntr” _

_ She bit her lip to stifle her smile at the mumble. “Wanna try that again?” _

_ He huffed, “There’s a letter on the counter.” _

_ That had the faint smile on her face sliding off quickly as she made her way to the dining room table, where a plain envelope sat. She absentmindedly dropped her purse as she picked up the envelope, quickly pulling the flap out, because apparently sealing it would be too much work.  _

_ She slid out the single page, expecting something terrible about Henry, although wondering exactly what her mild and well mannered son could have done to merit having a letter sent home. As she read it over, it turned out to be far, far worse.  _

“ **Dear** Mr. and Mrs. Swan,

**Here at St Judas’s Academy, Of the Sacred Kiss, we firmly believe that the best way for children to learn is by watching the examples set for them by their parents. And so to ensure that we here at St. Judas’s instill within all of our students the values of community and giving, we ask that all parents actively partake in the volunteer programs that are offered throughout the academic year.**

**We also understand that the events and situations of life do not always permit the donation of time to set an example for our students to follow. However, to encourage the spirit of giving, we recommend that if time cannot be volunteered, monetary donations in the place of time are highly encouraged.**

**You know what they say, time is money, but money is money too!**

_ Emma could barely believe what she was reading, and the next part got even better.  _

**It has come to the administration’s attention that** Mr and Mrs. Swan **have not completed the requested number of volunteer hours. As a household that noted a combined family income of less than $** 70,000 **per year, you and your spouse are required to give** 8 **hours of service, or provide $** 150.00 **for every unserved hour of time.**

**Thank you so much for lending your support!**

_ “What the fu-” she barely managed to catch her tongue. _

_ “So, what does it say, Mom?” Henry’s voice was laced with nervousness. “Was it... um... was it something I did?” _

_ Emma shoved aside her absolute fury and indignation to give her son a soft, if strained, smile. “No Kid. It’s actually about something  _ I  _ did. Or didn’t do, I guess.” _

_ The relief was clear on his face, but it was quickly overtaken by confusion. “What do you mean?” _

_ She walked over to where he was spread out at the table and offered him the letter. “Apparently, I don’t set a good example for you.”  _

_ Henry scoffed as he started to read the letter, his brow furrowing. In spite of her irritation, she watched in amusement as Henry started to take offence on her behalf.  _

_ “‘Money is money, too’?” he quoted. “Who thought that was a good line to put in a letter to parents. And why do they keep saying you are married?” _

_ Emma shrugged, “Your guess is as good as mine, kid.”  _

_ Henry shook his head as he offered the letter back to her. “That’s just rude.”  _

_ Emma gave a small laugh. “Yes, it is. Now, what are you working on?” _

_ He gestured towards a math textbook with a disgusted look on his face, “Algebra.” _

_ She smirked, “Not a fan?” _

_ “Letters should be used in literature only. They have no business being in my math problems.” _

_ “Do you want me to help you? It’s been a while, but I think I still remember most of it.” _

_ “Yeah, that would be great.” _

_ She settled down beside him as he walked her through what they were learning. She could tell, as he explained it to her, he began to understand it much better himself. So, she let him talk at her, working through the equations aloud, rather than try and teach it to him herself. It reminded her of the old saying, ‘You don’t really know something until you can teach it.’ _

_ Emma’s temper settled as she spent the rest of the evening helping Henry. They had decided on home-cooked pizza, and after they had eaten Emma let Henry out of his self-imposed penance. They settled on the couch and she sipped at a glass of wine while Henry violently pressed controller buttons as he leaned and dodged, trying to get his on screen avatar to move more quickly, as if the level of his enthusiasm would make the controller work better. _

_ She finished her glass and went to wash it, taking a glance at the kitchen clock. “Henry! Time for bed, kid!” She didn’t hear an acknowledgement from him, and gave him the amount of time it took to wash out her wine glass and put it away to wrap up his game.  _

_ As she wandered back into the living room, she couldn’t keep the smile off her face. He was in the midst of saving his game, soshe just quietly watched him as he went about putting the controller away and cleaning up his mess from dinner. She then headed down the hall to her room to get herself ready for bed.  _

_ She was brushing out her hair when Henry shouted, “OH MOM I FORGOT!” His feet pounded as he hurried down the hall, rounding the corner into her room with a piece of paper held aloft like it was some great document or something. Skidding to a stop right in front of her, waving it back and forth, he chanted, “CanIcanIcanIcanIcanI?” _

_ She grabbed his wrist with a laugh. “Can you what, kid?” _

_ He relinquished his prize paper. “We have a field trip next month to the Ireland exhibit!!” _

_ Emma granted him a smile as she ran her eyes over the permission form. She was about to tell him to leave it on the table and she’d sign it in the morning, when the last line caught her eye. _

**If you are available to chaperone this field trip, please contact the room parents for further details and to be given your volunteer paperwork.**

_ Emma ran her eyes back over the form. It was a full day outing. They would leave the school at 8:30 and get back at 4:30. That was eight hours. She looked back up at Henry and his hopeful eyes.  _

_ “Well kid, how would you feel if I went with you this time?” _

Emma let her eyes wander over the teeming group of children from her position at the back of the pack, pretending like she actually cared about the health and wellbeing of the mass of little cretins under her charge. Well, she did, insofar as anything happening to anyone that  _ ‘damaged their health or reputation in any lasting way’ _ would mean that she didn’t get the credit for the hours that she was currently doing time for.

She had made sure to not hover over Henry. He seemed to appreciate it, because ever so often he would send her a glance from where he was situated, off on the right side towards the front, with his little posse of friends, and give her a smile. She always answered with her own, but didn’t make an attempt to talk to him. 

She knew the rules of adolescence. Adults were evil, parents were uncool, and having an attitude was obligatory. So she kept her peace as the herd wandered from exhibit to exhibit, the docent droning on and on, trying to keep the interest and attention of thirty-two very bored eighth graders who had seen enough of old things that didn’t matter. 

Emma gave a sigh of relief as the docent finally said, in that creepy cheery voice that all old people who hate children have, “Okay! Now, our last exhibit! Aren’t you excited?” There was an awkward pause that Emma could feel in her very bones, before the woman plowed on, the smile on her face looking as if her lips had been sewn to her cheeks. “Excellent! Now this exhibit is the Bog Bodies of the Irish Bogs!”

The words didn’t garner any additional reaction, so the docent paused, before a wicked twinkle sparked in her eye. Emma raised an eyebrow as she watched the docent straighten. The woman’s smile turned into something more genuine, but with something oddly secretive to the tilt of her lips as she led the way into the darkened, empty exhibit. 

Emma heard one of the boys she’d been keeping an eye on mutter as they made their way into the exhibit hall, “Great just more big dumb rocks.”

She raised an eyebrow at the kid, but he wasn’t really looking around and so her scathing look was missed. 

The only lights were from the opaque glass upon which sat twisted, preserved corpses. Emma had to admit to herself, even as the children went quiet, with a few little exclamations of awe, that the exhibit was pretty cool. 

The docent continued, “Now, the bog bodies are a pretty cool phenomenon by themselves. I’d get into the technical aspects of how they were preserved, but I don’t think that would interest you very much. So instead, I’ll tell you a bit about  _ why _ they were put into the bog. The leading theory is that they were thrown in as….  _ Human sacrifice.” _

Emma bit back a smile as the woman suddenly had the intense and undivided attention of the entire pack of eighth graders.

The woman nodded dramatically as she continued, “Indeed! It is thought that the peat bog, in which a majority of these particular bog bodies were found, was a ritual place of sacrifice for an ancient sect of Druids.”

One kid spoke up, “I thought Druids were like... wandering professors or something?”

The woman nodded. “It’s true, most Druids were. But it is thought that a group of them, which scholars now today call ‘The Caillte Gas úr ,’ were very different than their brethren.” The docent paused, considering, before she corrected, “Or rather, not so much that they were different, but, rather, more important. For they were responsible for the well being of the very island of Ireland itself. In order to keep the health of the land, they would perform brutal sacrifices that they believed would satiate the gods’ appetite for blood, and help ensure that the land remained at peace.”

The docent took a breath and Emma let her gaze wander over the group, biting back a grin at the kids, whose eyes were practically falling out of their heads. Nothing could capture the imagination of eighth graders like blood and gore. 

“And for hundreds of years, The Caillte Gas úr would lead an ancient ceremony in the oak and heather groves that grew on the edges of this particular bog, making animal sacrifices and saying the prayers that told the history of the land and its people to all those present. It was a ceremony that lasted almost a week and -”

“DID THEY DO DRUGS?” The shout came from one of the kids towards the back. Emma had noticed him leading his little flock of would-be jocks with ridiculous hair cuts they kept having to flip out of their eyes. At his question, the rest of his group snickered, like he was saying a dirty word. 

One of the other women chaperoning gave a quiet gasp, “Lucan!” but he ignored her.  _ Must be his mom. _

The docent leveled the small group of cretins with a blank expression that had all of them clamming up rather quickly. 

“To a certain extent, yes they did. But it wasn’t ‘drugs’,” her impression of jock was dead on, “in the typical sense. Many religious and sacred rights around the world use herbs and other plants to alter their state of consciousness.” 

Even with only being able to see the backs of their heads, Emma could tell the docent had lost the kids.

“Think of it this way- when you get ready for a sporting event, I’m sure that there are warm up stretches you do and specific drinks you have to make sure your body performs at its best.” That seemed to click for most of them as their heads perked up. “So, this is a similar idea. Rather than stretches, they would bathe or paint their skin, and then, rather than Gatorade, they would use herbs to get themselves ready for the ceremony.”

Emma had to admit that she was a bit impressed that the docent had managed to make ritual high sound more like baseball warm ups than a local frat boy’s grad night party. The docent guided them through a few more of the displays before stopping at one that was even more well preserved than the others.

“Now, you are probably wondering why they look like mummies. This is due to the bogs they were found in. You all know how the Egyptians made mummies, by drying them out with salt then wrapping them up in linen? Well the bog did something similar. Due to the chemicals in the dirt, the body didn’t have a chance to decay. This body here,” she gestured to the display, “is one of the most unique, because it’s actually much older than the rest of the bodies found in the same area, but it’s also much better preserved. Go ahead and take a look- you can still see his hair and fingernails, and even his clothing was partially preserved.”

The kids immediately crowded around, and Emma heard one girl whisper to her friend, “Look, look! If you stand right here, you can kinda see his…..” and then she dissolved into embarrassed giggles, while her friend tried to maneuver to where she’d been standing. The girl paused, eyes squinting before they widened dramatically. Then she hastily turned away and joined her friend, both of them sharing conspiratorial giggles.

Emma rolled her eyes. Clearly some things never change from one generation of kids to the next. She couldn’t resist drawing closer to look at the body either, though. 

The skin had turned dark from the mud that had kept it, but it was remarkably clean. She could see the dark staining of tattooing tracing along his chest and shoulders and down his back. His hair was thick and dark, remarkably shiny in the museum lights, but it was his face that captured her attention. Some part of her supposed that there would be some sort of peace to be found in death, but the face before her, even emaciated to the point of non-existence, seemed to carry a black look. The brows were pulled low in anger or grief, and lines of agony sat deeply in the corners of his eyes. 

This was a man that had known pain. 

“I’d like to draw your attention to the deep wounds that cover his body. There is severe head trauma, most likely from a blunt weapon like a club, as well as dozens of lash marks across his back. Neither of those were lethal, however. No, what killed this man were the wounds he sustained just before being pushed into the bog. He appears to have been stabbed multiple times, mostly in the back, although there are several deep wounds in his abdomen as well. His hand was also cut off, but that injury appears to have scarred and so was likely lost much earlier than his death. The blow that likely sealed his fate was the one right above his heart.”

The docent paused, glancing over at the adults before continuing.

“Not to be too graphic, but it is thought that this man was ambushed and clubbed over the head. Once he was dazed, he attacker moved in from behind. The man finally managed to shake off the blow to his head and turn to engage his attacker, but he was already fairly weakened by that point and it would have been all too easy to overpower him. Then, when his attacker had him too injured to move or escape, they…… carved out his still beating heart.”

Predictably, most of the girls squealed and the boys made appreciative sounds before imitating squelching noises. Emma wrinkled her nose at the thought. What a horrible way to die. 

One of the quieter girls that Emma had noticed earlier spoke up. “But if he was ambushed, why would he be considered one of the sacrifices then?”

“An excellent question! It was thought that his death actually started what would later become tradition.”

“They made murder into a tradition?”

The docent nodded. “See, before we had science to answer questions like why the weather is the way it is or the best soil to grow things in, humanity was still asking the questions and wanting an answer. So, they took what they could observe and applied the event as a rule. My guess is that after this man was killed, there was a long lasting reign of peace and prosperity in his region of the world. So the humans of the time most likely put two and two together and got three. Killing a man in that location, in a specific way, would ensure peace in the land.”

“But then wouldn’t that mean that he was a bad guy? If killing him brought peace?”

The docent gave the girl a sad smile. “Sadly, I wish that were the case, but it’s more complicated than that. When historians talk about peace, it isn’t sunshine and rainbows. Peace is simply the absence of war, created when there are no rivals to the ruling power. So a cruel person can rule, but the land could still be at peace if there were none brave enough to stand up to him or try to take away his throne.”

The docent let the words sink in, and Emma scanned the group and noticed several troubled expressions, including Henry’s.

“We aren’t sure which this man is. After his death, even though someone went to the trouble of recording who he was, and marking the sight as the sacred location that it was used for in the following centuries, as well as a sort of warning, what they said about him seems contradictory. The inscription says that the man brought strife, but was also well like by people.”

“And that brings us to the ‘big dumb rock’ that we have here on display,” the docent sent a pointed glare at Lucan before she continued. “This is an Ogham Stone. Does anyone know what that means?”

Emma felt herself swell with pride as Henry’s hand shot up and after an acknowledging look, he easily gave an answer to the question. “An Ogham Stone is a rock, usually upright, with a curved top, and generally with a seam, upon which the druidic script of Ogham, made up of various slash denotations across a center line, which is why stones with a seam are preferred, was written.”

The whole group went silent, Emma included. She didn’t think that Henry knew what half the words meant, but as he finished rattling off what sounded like a wikipedia definition, there was no hesitation to his words. The docent was clearly shocked, but recovered quickly, her opened-mouth disbelief morphing into a radiant smile.

“That is absolutely right. An Ogham Stone is always a fascinating discovery because the Druids, and any literate Celt, almost never wrote on any medium that would last, choosing instead to write on materials such as wood and vellum, which is animal skin, if they wrote anything down at all.” 

The docent paused, that same strange expression crossing her face, “Now Ogham is also interesting because like Greek, the letters have names, but these names are not based off their origin sounds, but rather based on trees and the ancient names that they carried. There is a lot of debate about whether or not Ogham was an original alphabet or if it was based off of a much older, and at this point, lost system of writing.”

“But more than that, Ogham is unique because it generally only ever records two things- Names associated with a location and ………. curses. And as I said, this stone does both.”

Emma took a closer look at the lump of granite that was so dramatically lit, and took in the deep lines carved along the edge that traced the silhouette of the arching stone. Emma thought it might have been her boredom that led to her fancy, but she thought she could almost see the aggressive desperation in the depth of the lines, the anger in the shaky tracing of the stone seam, the hate.

Emma blinked at herself.  _ Where had that come from? _

“Now the ancient script records the name of the man, as well as his title. It then goes on to say that when sacred blood is spilled, the heart will be heard. Now it’s thought that this is referring to the land of Ireland itself, often call the Heartland by many. And then there is the second portion. Interestingly enough, it appears that the curse was written by a different hand than those that wrote the initial inscription. But the curse seems to warn people that the spirit of the stone will punish those who use it. So, the ritual would sacrifice the chosen person to the bog, and the preparation that I was talking about earlier helped to keep the ____ who were performing the ceremony from abusing their positions.”

“What does that mean?” Henry piped up.

The docent smiled at him again. “Scholars have long debated the meaning, but the widely held belief is the person is essentially warning people to be careful that they don’t abuse the power of the stone.”

“So, what does it actually say?” Henry pressed

The docent paused, something dark flickering across her face. “Well, we try not to say the words out loud, because that was supposedly how the ritual happened. And we wouldn’t want anyone cursed now would we?”

Henry immediately grew less enthusiastic, and it was clear to Emma that some part of him actually believed he might actually get cursed if he did. “Oh yeah, don’t want that.”

It seemed that Lucan and his cronies had caught wind of Henry’s half-belief as well though, because then he called out, “Oh come on, Henry! It’s just some words, tell us what it says! You are the expert among us on these Log Run Rocks. Read it out loud!”

“It’s Ogham Stones,” Henry muttered, but his shoulders were curling in as his face turned red, the whole class avidly watching the exchange. 

Lucan’s face twisted into a cruel smile. “Yeah exactly. You know their right name, you should be the one to read it!”

The anger that flashed through Emma’s veins had her clenching her hands to still the shaking as she watched her son get bullied. But she lost it when she glanced at the other chaperones, one of whom was his mother, and they did nothing, expressions blank. 

Taking a quick breath to force her temper under control, she spoke up. “Well actually-” she paused as the undivided attention of the entire class redirected onto her. It was like facing a hydra - too many heads to keep track of. “If Henry doesn’t mind, I’d actually like to read it. These… “ she floundered for the word for a moment, “Ogham Stones have always fascinated me, and I’ve wanted to see one up close forever.” She turned to Henry, doing her best to keep her expression excited, but she almost broke when she saw his face. His eyes were swimming with tears, but despite them, he was looking up at her awe and admiration. She’d never felt so loved in that moment, and her faux excited grin slid into a genuine smile. 

“Is that alright with you, Henry? I wouldn’t want to steal your thunder.”

He blinked a couple times before shaking his head. “No, it’s alright. You want to read it more, so you should be the one.” 

She nodded before turning to walk up to the display. As she did, she heard someone whisper, “Do you know who’s mom that is?” 

“No.”

Emma felt a welling of satisfaction that Henry’s classmates didn’t know. It meant that she wasn’t known well enough to be gossip fodder for their parents. It also meant that Henry wouldn’t get even more pushed around for having his mom come to his rescue.

She made her way up to the stand and gave an awkward smile to the docent, who returned it with a genuine one. 

“Well, if you just want to go right up to the stone, the translation is right at the base.”

Emma nodded, acutely aware of the eyes of the whole class on her as she squinted down at the brass placard, trying to make out the lettering against the light. After several failed moments trying to get it into focus, she gave up and squatted down.

Then she read, “Sunken here - Man of Strife, Great Lord of Lords, Beloved of his people. By life and pain offered here, the heart be heard and honored. By oath of blood, bind fate until freedom is given.” 

A strange wave of dizziness passed over her and she had to pause before she continued with the section that translated what must have been the curse.

“May the cruel find cruelty, may the wicked find wickedness, and may those who seek to find a slave never taste true freedom. May strife find the small and make it grow.”

Once she finished, there was a strange hush over the room, as if all sound had been muted. Emma could still feel several dozen eyes on her, and suddenly felt extremely self conscious. The memories of all the times she’d received that same look in whatever new house she’d been shipped to washed over her. It was a look she never got from Neal, but received plenty of once she was in jail. She didn’t want people looking at her like that anymore. She wanted to be looked at with the same expression that Henry had on his face. 

To be loved. 

But Henry was enough. He would always be enough. 

She shook herself out of her strange lapse into introspection and made to rise. As she did, another wave a vertigo washed over her and she lost her balance, falling backwards. On instinct, she reached out to grab the several thousand year old museum piece to catch herself, managing to keep herself upright. But in recovering her balance her hand slid slightly and she must have found the only edged portion of the rock, because a moment later she felt a sharp pain across her fingers. 

She hurriedly let go of the stone with a sincere apology, trying to ignore the throbbing in her hand, pressing the face of it against her jeans to absorb the blood she knew she’d be dripping otherwise. She could feel the wetness seeping through the denim and knew she’d have to take care of it soon. 

She glanced at the docent, afraid of the anger that might be directed because she might have put a several ton rock at risk, but the woman had a completely different expression on her face. It almost looked like fear.

Weird.

She apologized again and that seemed to snap the docent out of her fugue state, turning to the kids and rounding up the tour, leading them out. The day was finally over, and she was so proud of herself that she hadn’t killed a single child. 

Then she noticed that Henry was lagging behind, shooing his group of friends, letting them know he would catch up. 

“Everything okay, Kid?”

He nodded, looking at his feet, before he spoke. “Thank you for doing that.”

“Of course, Henry. But if I ask you something will you answer me honestly?”

He nodded without saying anything.

“Do you get treated like that a lot?”

“Umm …. Yes… I guess?” He said it so quietly that she almost missed it. She grabbed his shoulder and turned him to her, but he kept his eyes on his feet.

“Henry why haven’t you ever said anything? Have you talked to any of your teachers about it?” 

He shuffled a bit. “I just wanted to be like you.”

Emma wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Like me? What do you mean?”

“Well, you went through all those foster homes and new schools and stuff all by yourself and you probably got picked on too, but you got through it alone, so I thought I-”

She desperately wanted to pull him into a hug, but knew that some of the kids were watching. “Henry, I did things alone because I had to. I would have given anything to have someone by my side to try and make things better. It’s not about whether or not you  _ can _ handle it by yourself. It’s that you don’t have to. And despite the fact that your class is apparently clueless, I am your mother.” That got him to smile. “And as your mother, it’s my  _ job _ to make sure you don’t have to deal with things alone. Okay?”

He nodded, looking up at her. “You know you’re the best mom, right? Even if the other kids don’t know it.”

She winked at him. “You bet I am.”

That got a full on laugh from him and she stood back up to rejoin the kids. As she stood amongst the milling pack, waiting for the bus to pull up to the loading lane, she finally had a moment to assess the damage to her hand. The blood flow seemed to have stopped, but the cut traced almost perfectly across the middle of her palm, so anything she did with her hand hurt. She wondered what the school would have to say about donating not just time, but blood to the effort, too.

They finally got the kids loaded in and settled when her phone went off and she pulled it out to see a text message from Henry asking if he could go over to his friend, Jordan’s house. Given what she’d seen today and the fact that it was Friday, she was all too happy to have him spend time with people he liked. 

It was as they were arriving back on the school grounds that she realized she’d have the evening to herself, and as she shepherded kids to the parking lot and their parent’s waiting cars, she plotted out exactly how she wanted to spend that precious free time.

Until she overheard the last few PTA moms who were lingering in the pick up area.

“Do you know who she is?”

“I think she the mom of one of the kids.”

“But she’s so young!”

“Yeah well, she probably didn’t know how to keep her legs shut.”

“But how could she afford to send her kid here then?”

“Maybe she still can’t keep her legs shut!”

Then Emma suddenly had a whole new plan for her evening.

~~

While getting more drunk than she’d been in years had seemed like a good idea last night, faced with her throbbing head and rolling stomach, the wisdom of washing her past with alcohol now seemed less so. 

She groaned slightly as she slowly extricated her upper half from beneath the covers, every movement sending flashes of pain into her head. She smacked her lips, wrinkling her nose at the disgusting taste of unbrushed alcohol teeth. She was so distracted for a moment that she didn’t realize that, in an odd turn of events, she was sleeping in the nude. 

Frowning, she blearlity looked around the room and saw a trail of clothes from the door leading to her bed. 

She was on the brink of just passing it off as the decisions of a drunk mind when she heard it. The very distinct sound of hands rummaging through the tupperware cabinet. 

With dawning horror, she realized what must have happened. She’d gotten drunk, brought a guy home, and he was now trying to make her breakfast in her own kitchen. 

She leapt out of bed, intending to march into the kitchen to demand they leave, when she was abruptly reminded that her body was still very much not happy with her decision making, and that she was not yet dressed, which might make the conversation counterproductive to what she was trying to achieve. So she hurriedly threw on some sweats and a T-shirt, grabbing some Advil from the cabinet and washing them back with sink water, before she took a deep breath, preparing herself for battle. 

When she entered her kitchen, however, all bets were off. She at least had to applaud her drunk self that she didn’t put on her beer glasses, because the profile of the man still rummaging through her cabinet was nothing short of statuesque. It was actually a bit absurd how attractive he was. 

But then her common sense managed to talk a little louder than her hormones, who had apparently been making very good calls the night before, and pointed out two things. One was that he was dressed extremely oddly, like something out of a period piece film. She would have remembered that. Second, was that her gun was on the counter. She never left her gun out if there was another person in the house, and she knew that even drunk her followed that rule. 

Which meant that at the time of her coming home, she’d been alone. And now she wasn’t. Now she was in the company of an adonis who dressed like he was planning on retreating to a mountain hut for the foreseeable future. 

She was in the presence of an apparently extremely hot crazy person who had decided to break into her house and rummage through her plasticware.

He was also much closer to her gun than she was.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

The man startled, sending a cascade of containers out of the cabinet and onto the countertop and floor. But then he turned to face her and  _ holy shit, he’s even better from the front. They are never better from the front _ . 

He almost looked angry for a moment before his eyes took her in, and he slouched his hip against the counter, crossing his arms as an eyebrow crawled up his face. 

“Well, well, it appears that I got lucky.”


End file.
